Chapter Two

The Harvest started off with the lowest of the Lords bonding to their Chosen first and then graduating in rank and importance as they day wore on. Emyr was aware of how the ritual worked, now. He'd been in one, seen one, and now that he was witnessing another, the rhyme and reason behind a great deal of it was starting to make sense to him.

The color of the cloth that the Chosen walked in with indicated the province from which they'd come, the cuffs on their arms held the emblem of the Lords they'd be bound to, and the blindfolds were a symbol of the faith that they would have in their Lords once bound.

His own Lord was watching the proceedings with almost unrestrained glee. Suppressing a shudder, Emyr turned his head away from the elaborate polished stone altar. Better to not see who the Chosen would be this time until he absolutely had to look upon them. This was his third Harvest. He'd learned his lessons well.

Lord Zaebos's arm wrapped lightly around his waist, and Emyr felt the man pull himself up from his heavily decorated throne using Emyr as leverage. Glancing down, he caught a peek at his Lord's smiling face and black glittering eyes. They were not for his benefit, of course. His Lord hated that Emyr had grown so tall and big from the little boy he'd been eight years ago. His Lord's eyes were instead fixated on the feast of new and youthful bodies being brought out before the Empire.

"So, my little giant, have you been watching this year's crop?" His Lord all but licked his lips in anticipation, and Emyr suppressed another shudder. To those listening in, he was sure, the pet name sounded affectionate. But Emyr knew better. It was his size alone that had saved him from the same fates as those that had passed through his Lord's rooms. "I must say that this year's lesser Lords have better taste than I would have credited them with, and it shall be so exciting to meet some of their Chosen."

Emyr didn't answer because no answer was required. Two more Chosen in Taran Province blue were trotted out before the masses, thrust roughly up against their Lords who caught them, startled. The ceremony was dragging and quickly falling behind schedule. With his Lord's younger brother Choosing again this Harvest, many lesser Lords had taken it as a sign to Choose themselves with the hopes that Imperial luck might trickle down to them. If Lord Lucan was ready to Choose again, then perhaps it was the perfect time for them to try their hand at bonding.

Officials and servants alike were starting to feel the brunt of the Lords' impatience, however, and were attempting to speed the process up.

With Urtel presiding as head priest over the affair, Emyr could have told them that their efforts were wasted. If it lasted through the night and right into the dawning off the next day, Urtel would not care in the least. The Harvest was his moment to have the undivided attentions of all those of importance in the Empire, and he reveled in it. That Lord Zaebos encouraged such conceit as it gave him more time to ogle the Chosen was merely a means to an end.

Lord Zaebos controlled the priesthood, and it was amazing to Emyr that more people hadn't realized the amount of power his Lord had managed to accumulate in his hands because of it. Then again, the last Second Son of the Empire hadn't been so greedy, and his piety had lulled the Empire into a false sense of security.

And they would continue to remain there.

Lord Zaebos's cold fingers ghosted over Emyr's biceps to rest at the deep purple sash on his waist. "What do you say, my little giant," Lord Zaebos whispered into Emyr's ear, "would you like to pick the next?" Fingers crept past the sash to the edges of his pale purple schenti, and Emyr ducked his head. Lord Zaebos slid up against him from behind, his excitement from the Harvest obvious as he pressed up against Emyr's back. "So many pretty little choices."

He would answer, but his Lord had long since taken the ability from him.

Intellectually, he knew. It didn't matter who he did or did not look at, and it wouldn't matter if he blinded himself so that he could never see another Chosen for the rest of his days. Lord Zaebos would still pick one from amongst the crowds. He would still coerce Emyr into drawing the unsuspecting Chosen to their rooms. He would still shackle Emyr. He would still…well, he would.

"Ah, my little giant, I know. The Harvest makes you nervous. You were so tiny at your own," his Lord purred, and Emyr's skin crawled. "Fear not, we shall have our fun once this is over." Fingernails dug into the skin at his hips as Lord Zaebos bit his ear. Emyr knew what that meant this Harvest. He hadn't last time. Emyr willed himself not to look. It was better not to know who Lord Zaebos had Chosen. "So pretty. Will look so pretty in our bed," his Lord panted in his ear. "Not as pretty as your brother was, but still so pretty."

Emyr couldn't help the shudder this time.

Blood. So much blood. He'd seen it before, but it was different this time. This time, he hadn't brought the Chosen.

Willing his feet to move forward, he walked slowly into the room, heart sinking into his stomach as he knew what he'd find, but hoping against hope that he was wrong. He'd only disobeyed the once. Just the once. He wouldn't do this to him for just the one indiscretion.

He rounded the bed. The Chosen, lying unnaturally still, was curled up in a ball amongst the blood like a broken doll amid splattered paint.

"No," he whispered hoarsely to himself as he saw that the color of the cloth flung haphazardly around the boy was a dark, forest green. Almost as if someone else was drawing closer, he watched his hand stretch out to pull the green fabric back from the Chosen's head.

It was a nightmare. He'd been stuck in one long nightmare for four years, and this was just another dream to add to the collection. It wasn't real…

…and it was those words he was screaming when He slit through his throat.

---

Snarling, Lucan tossed the kid he'd been saddled with into their rooms. Belturan! That he was a half breed, with only half his blood being Belturan mattered little. Half was surely enough to taint the whole.

Lucan could see it clearly, now that the blindfold was off. His hair was a lighter brown than normal, and the waves at the end suggested that if chopped off, there would be a bit of curl to it. The skin that had seemed flawless in the glow of the candles on the altar was in fact quite a few shades paler than what it should be.

"I didn't Choose you," Lucan ground out as he slammed the door shut behind him. The kid only looked back at him with stony blue eyes, saying nothing in return. "I didn't ask for you, and I don't want you." No, what he wanted was for Reytl to never have run. What he wanted was for Reytl never to have been killed by those traitorous bastards, leaving him to have to Choose again. And he certainly hadn't wanted to be stuck with some traitorous half brat from a kingdom of savages that had only delivered him murder and misery at their every back stabbing turn. "This is not a bond of mutual Choosing. You are my brother's Choice for me, not my own."

"Yes, your eminence," the boy's voice was low and husky, but none of its promise could be seen in the brat's flat expression. Reytl had never been able to hide his thoughts and emotions like that, it had been half the reason Lucan had Chosen him.

If Lucan had had any say in it, he would never have Chosen again, but Morholt wouldn't have it. Stupid brother. If it weren't for the fact that Morholt was Emperor, Lucan would have told him exactly what he thought of having to Choose again and having to let Zaebos Choose for him. It didn't take a genius to see that Zaebos's pious hand was at work here, trying to force Lucan to deal with his prejudice against Beltur.

He already knew he'd lose the verbal argument between the three of them. He was a Third Son. Fighting was what he did, and far be it for him to find the hidden agendas or weaknesses in those that had proven themselves to be enemies of Dramos. All Zaebos did all damn day was sit around with a bunch of priests who had their heads in the clouds and spouted messages about how the gods and goddesses wished for their children to live in peace and harmony.

Lucan had the battle scars to prove that those messages were not reaching their enemies. Morholt understood, he knew. It was just that Morholt also wanted to open the ports their father had closed, and open the country back up to trade. To do so and be successful; Morholt needed allies where his father had made enemies. In order for Morholt to negotiate favorable trade relations with those countries, he first had to be at peace with them. Lucan was well aware of the whys, he just failed to see how radically changing their father's policies would work for the better. Dramos was a wealthy, functional country without attempting to mire it in diplomatic politics.

Lucan's opinion on the subject, however, had not been asked for and his approval had not been sought. That was the birth right of a First Son. He was lucky enough that Morholt genuinely listened and weighed what he had to say about his troops and about strategies that they kept in play to secure the country. His father had been no where near as understanding with Lucan's Third Uncle.

Still, as willing as Morholt was to listen to him, Lucan knew he wouldn't budge on this. Having one of the Imperial family Bonded to a Belturan would be an opening in negotiating a discussion between the two countries.

All of which meant that Lucan was now chained to this half breed who was nothing like the one he'd Chosen for himself. No one could replace Reytl. Not in beauty, not in personality, not in Lucan's heart.

And this sour faced brat? Hell, given the way the kid's eyes followed him as he paced the room in irritation, he looked half wild. Wary. Lucan had no doubt that he would have to watch his back while he slept to keep the boy from slipping a knife between his ribs.

"You will stay in these rooms until I give you leave." He'd told Morholt it was too soon after Reytl. And gods damn him, he'd told Zaebos what kind of boy appealed to him. Lucan didn't care that Zaebos was Second Son, or that all the priests turned to him to illuminate the words of the gods and goddesses. Lucan failed to see how having a Chosen he'd most likely end up killing in self defense was the divine work of a peaceful higher being. It was far more likely that Zaebos had unwittingly managed to pick the one Chosen who was a spy for the Belturans. "You will not talk to anyone unless I have told you first that you can, and you are not to disturb me."

"As you wish, your eminence." The brat bowed his head, but his eyes never stopped watching Lucan.

"You're not that much to look at." The closer he got, the more noticeable the Belturan blood became. He hadn't the slinky, easy going beauty of a great many of the Chosen who roamed the palace halls, and he lacked the innocence and charm of some of the less sophisticated Chosen. He circled the boy, noting with a grimace that the long hair went well past the boy's ass. It wouldn't last long on a campaign, and Lucan was not leaving a possible assassin to stay and murder the emperor freely while he defended the country's borders. He was going with Lucan, whether he liked it or not. "I hope you bed better than you look."

"I shall try, your eminence," the boy said with a sultry voice that reflected none of the dislike that Lucan saw shining in his eyes.

Although, Lucan had a grudging respect for the boy. Coming closer, he reached out to brush a hand over the boy's shoulder, pulling the long hair to the front. He didn't once flinch. "I do not care for long hair," he whispered into the boy's ear to see what he'd do. There, he earned a shudder, but it was so small, Lucan knew he would have missed it had he not been looking for it. "It's vain, needlessly time consuming and more important, it's a hazard in the places we will be going and the things we will be doing," he added louder, more practical now. "It will have to go." Assassin or not, the boy would not die in his care unless it was by his own traitorous actions.

"If it is your desire, your eminence." The boy turned his head, and briefly, Lucan locked gazes with him. The flash of hatred was there, but gone so quick that Lucan almost didn't see it.

Gathering the hair up in one hand, Lucan slid the small knife from his right wrist cuff out into his hand. The knife sliced through the hair with a stiff yank, and Lucan knew that the boy felt it and was aware of exactly what had just happened. For argument's sake though, he tilted the boy's chin up so that he could see the hair hanging from Lucan's hand.

If he was waiting for a reaction, Lucan could tell he was doomed to be disappointed. The boy merely looked at his hair blankly, thrice damned blue eyes peeking out from under long brown lashes with disinterest.

Something about that just made Lucan want to reach out and rough him up. Reytl would never have stood for this kind of treatment, no matter who was administering it. His Chosen had been proud, yes, but also sure of himself. That this one fell so short of the mark was infuriating. "Are you so weak that you'll just take whatever I say? Pathetic." He shoved the boy, watching and inwardly wincing a bit as the boy sprawled out on the floor in a heap.

The action only garnered him a look of resigned acceptance however, as the boy looked out at him from behind unevenly chopped hair that was beginning to curl. Disgusted, Lucan turned to storm out of the room. Maybe if he begged Morholt would see reason.

He made it just to the door as he heard a humorless chuckle from the boy. "Are you so stupid as to think that I'll fight back when it's obvious to anyone that you're the one holding all the power?" The husky voice finally whispered in the stillness of the room.

Lucan refused to turn around. Opening the door, he stormed out, slamming it shut with a satisfying bang behind him. He couldn't handle this right now. Pelleas would know what the next best course of action would be. If nothing else, his friend could help talk him out of cheerfully strangling the boy Zaebos had Chosen for him.